


i'll be looking at the moon / but i'll be seeing you

by octopodian, staticbees



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, i love helen so much., mag131 SAID gay rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-01 03:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopodian/pseuds/octopodian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticbees/pseuds/staticbees
Summary: Melanie glances down at the blood staining her clothes and winces. “Unless you have a shower in here, I’d really like to get out now.”“Of course.” A door opens behind them.“Um. See you around?” Melanie says, still slightly in shock.“I hope so."Exploring Helen's sense of self and her relationship with Melanie between MAG115 and MAG131.





	1. old familiar places

**Author's Note:**

> helen uses she/they pronouns in this, so if you find the switching confusing... sorry!  
> i love her so much. there will be 5 chapters and ill update daily/multiple times a day until its all out.  
> thanks to @staticbees for helping me when i got stuck with scenes, it means a lot. <3

Becoming Helen was difficult for the Distortion. Or, becoming the Distortion was difficult for Helen. It is hard to tell what is who, really, when a “who” is something you were never meant to have.

They are still Helen Richardson, but then again, Michael had still been Michael, and she isn’t Michael anymore. Is she? It didn’t feel right. The Archivist had said she was, and it just had felt... wrong. But the Archivist was supposed to know things, so surely he would know?

Michael had preferred being treated as a man, to start with. He was... well,  _ he _ was  _ Michael _ .

That doesn’t fit her at all. She is decidedly not Michael, then. But, the Archivist insisted she wasn’t Helen either. So, what is she?  _ Who _ is she?

(She has no idea.)

 

-

 

In the end, it didn’t matter. She preyed on people, she ate them, she trapped them in her corridors and digested them until they were nothing more than a few quivering neuroses.

(She doesn’t like it anymore.)

 

-

 

She kept finding herself coming back to the Archives. She watches over it, just for little increments. She doesn’t talk to the Archivist, though. He clearly hadn’t wanted to see her. She would hate to intrude.

(Michael wouldn’t have, she thinks. It’s comforting.)

 

-

 

“Please, let me go,” he begs. “My partner - they’re going to miss me. I need to get back to them. Please.”

Helen does. They’ve never let someone go before. Not intentionally.

(It feels good.)

 

-

 

She looks in a mirror like the Archivist said. She doesn’t recognize her reflection, and when she reaches out to touch it, the mirror shatters. 

(She doesn’t do it again.)

 

-

 

Helen wanders back to the Archives again. Michael had called her the Wanderer. Some things don’t change, they suppose. Many other things do.

Lately, it had reeked of the Lonely: like a beached whale, rotting to the core. Regardless, it should be entertaining. There always seems to be something happening, even since the Archivist had been... taken out of the picture.

She was a bit sad to see him go, but she didn't dare go near the Stranger and their ritual. Just because they had an uneasy understanding didn't mean they were anywhere near fond of each other. There was nothing she could have done.

Today, the Archives was dripping with blood.

(Well, that’s new.)

In the carnage, there was only one whom they recognized. He had been in their halls before. Martin. He had stood up to Michael, so he must be quite brave, but whatever had motivated him then was... gone. He doesn't stand up, doesn't fight, doesn't try to hold his own. He just runs.

(It’s a bit disappointing.)

She looks back to the room where the Fleshling was. He lurches over a woman Helen didn't recognize, but who radiates the power of the eye. He had already taken several people in preparation for the attack, digested them and turned them into extensions of himself. His army circles him, crooning over their father. The forces of the Eye all keep fighting back, of course, but every blow and cut do nothing. The army stitches itself back together, and-

For the first time, The Fleshling screams.

Helen doesn't see her at first: almost a blur of blades. She is hacking and slashing at the Flesh army, tearing them apart. The Fleshling reaches out, tries to grab her, take her, consume her, and she slices off his hands. He screams with so many mouths. She screams back, raw and guttural and angry. She doesn't falter or tire. She keeps laying into him, going through organs and limbs like butter. 

The Fleshling is strong, but not when confronted with a Slaughterer. 

He’s scared. He runs.

He flees through the nearest door, losing hands and globs of muscle and fat as he runs, and Helen reaches out and shuts it behind him.

She can feel him, far off. He hasn’t realized yet. He is still running. 

(Good. She likes surprises.)

Melanie attempts to wipe the blood off of her face, though she accomplishes nothing save for spreading it around. Her eyes are wild, unfocused: the Slaughter pulsing through her veins and giving her strength. The room is nearly flooded with blood: everyone, even the Detective, has run. It’s just the two of them, staring at each other.

“Where is he?” she demands, anger thick in her voice, and then reconsiders. She is not a Huntress. She doesn't care. She takes her knife and charges at Helen. It's almost frightening, for a moment, if Helen pretends they are capable of fear.

A door opens in the middle of the floor, and Melanie trips.

(It’s really rather garish in here, Helen thinks, and she really should try to make her corridors more hospitable if she’s going to be having guests.

Oh well. A problem for the future. Now, there is a guest on one of her couches.)

The fall helps Melanie slip back into clarity, still breathing heavily.

“What…” Her voice shakes slightly. “What did I do?”

Helen doesn’t answer that question. “It can’t reach you for now.” She holds out her hand. “Helen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Melanie shakes her hand somewhat reluctantly, and doesn’t attempt to hide the obvious discomfort that crosses her face.

(Helen does try to keep her bones in the right places, but it’s hard when you don’t have any.)

“You’re... uh, you’re the Distortion, yeah? From the statements?”

“I’m  _ Helen _ ,” she insists. Then pauses, because that was a bit rude. At least she didn't call her Michael. “Yes.”

“Melanie,” she frowns. She remembers the knife in her hand and drops it. It falls upward and lands on the ceiling. “So, I’m not completely blind with bloodlust anymore because...?”

“The Slaughter has no power in my realm. No one does. Except me, of course.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Melanie looks around, studying her surroundings. It's mostly just hideous wallpaper and hundreds of doors (and a few framed photos of fractals, who were very good friends of hers).

“You are very welcome.”

“Are you going to let me go?” Most people would sound panicked, but Melanie just sounds tired.

“Yes. I do not want to hurt you. I merely wanted to help.”

Melanie glances down at the blood staining her clothes and winces. “Unless you have a shower in here, I’d really like to get out now.”

“Of course.” A door opens behind them.

“Um. See you around?” Melanie says, still slightly in shock.

“I hope so,” Helen says.

(She means it.)


	2. the morning sun

“You left your knife,” she says, gently setting it down on Melanie's kitchen counter. Melanie drops the plate she was holding (which both does and doesn't break, thanks to Helen), swearing loudly.

“Helen! Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Melanie.”

They both wait for the other person to talk. Eventually, Melanie huffs, bending down to grab the dropped ceramic. “Why are you here?”

“I’m returning the knife. I cleaned it. Hopefully, that’s okay.”

“It’s not my knife. I just grabbed it from... uh, from somewhere.”

“It is bound to you now.” Helen shrugs. “Regardless, it had no place in my corridors.” 

(And I wanted to see you again, she doesn’t say.)

Well. That was all, right? No point hanging around where they weren’t wanted. They turn to leave.

“Wait.” 

“Yes?”

“You’re, uh... you’re the only person I’ve seen in months that I don’t want to hurt? And with Jon in the hospital, and Martin,” she clenches her fists, taking a few shallow breaths, “and Basira both doing... something. I just... we need all the allies we can get.”

Helen smiles. “If you need me, I’ll be here. I quite enjoy helping.”

Melanie nods, looking both relieved and annoyed. She usually looks annoyed, these days. “Thanks.”

“See you around, Melanie.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

-

 

She keeps thinking about Melanie, and she doesn’t know why.

(Maybe she’s lonely.)

 

-

 

“Am I still human?” 

Helen blinks. They had not opened a door for her. Had they? They were... a bit in the middle of something, at the moment.

The old man (who had abused his wife for many years, so Helen was more than happy to feed on him now that his memory was failing and he was under their control) looks around in confusion, and Helen shuts a door in his face. He can sit in a constantly shifting room for a few hours or weeks and contemplate the awful things he’s done. That’s  _ fine _ .

“Am I human?” Melanie demands again, eyes fiery despite the tears. She must have found her way in. Or did Helen leave a door somewhere?

“I don’t know,” Helen says. “I don’t think it matters anymore.” 

Melanie deflates a bit. “Right. This was... stupid, I’m sorry. I...”

“Would you like to talk?” Helen is very bad at this.

Melanie hesitates. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Fuck it.”

 

-

 

They talk for a long time. 

 Listening to the sound of her voice, Helen thinks they might understand why the Archivist so loves to listen.

 

-

 

“I was so desperate for answers, I got shot. It’s... it’s still in there. Part of the Slaughter. Just... growing in me.” Melanie’s hands trace over her thigh absently. “I think it might be... changing me.”

There’s a long silence. Helen can see the pulsing, thick veins of the Slaughter, reaching through her, suffocating. It might eat her.

“I could take it out,” Helen says, voice even.

“No!” Melanie yells, scrambling away, her eyes wide with panic. “Don't touch me! I-I...”

“I won’t. I’m sorry for scaring you. I won't do anything unless you ask me to,” Helen reassures. She doesn’t like the Slaughter, but she does like Melanie. "I was just offering. Do you... want it to change you?"

Melanie relaxes. She slowly moves back towards her. “It’s... it hurts, but... I don’t have anything without it. I _need_  to be angry. Angry is better than... I don’t know what I’ll be without it.”

“You will still be Melanie.”

She snorts bitterly. “Yeah, like Jon is still Jon?”

Helen pauses. “I used to be Michael. I don’t think I was ever him, but I still became him and I cannot separate us, not completely. It’s... a rather confusing sense of self.” Helen looks at her hands, long and sharp. “I believe I am Helen. That is who I am. Yet, the Archivist says I am just pretending. I don’t know if he’s right.”

She hadn't meant to complain, but before she knows it, Melanie is laying a comforting arm on her shoulder. “I mean... you can't let Jon of all people tell you who you are or aren't. You've gotta figure that out for yourself. Pot calling the kettle black and all.” Melanie shuffles her feet. 

Helen does not understand what that means, but they nod accordingly. “What I’m trying to say is, if I am still Helen Richardson, you are undoubtedly still Melanie King. We cannot control what happens to us, only what we do after.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Melanie chews on her lip. “I mean, I’d love to help more, but I’m not really an expert with this stuff.” She scrunches up her nose, thinking for a very long moment. “Maybe you could get a therapist?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3


	3. the night is new

Mx. Lauren Cornenthal screams for a very long time. 

The Spiral had been watching them for a while, as they'd had recent problems remembering things and were very concerned about the strain it might put on their marriage and job. It was fairly mild as fears of losing your mind go, but Helen doesn't want to be tempted anyway.

Right now, though, they are screaming. Helen waits patiently for them to stop. 

“How did you get in here? Th- I locked the building! What do you want?” they ask, voice shaking and eyes wide. They look at her reflection in the windows, see those long boneless arms and sharp pointed hands, and they scream more. Helen smiles. They stare, fearful. “Who  _ are _ you?”

Helen laughs. “I was wondering if you could help me with that.” 

 

-

 

“Well, you like being called Helen.”

“Yes.”

“And you prefer feminine pronouns?”

“Neutral ones are also... good.” 

“Right, right. Are there any specific things that make you specifically... Um, dysphoric? I-if that word works for you?”

Helen thinks for a moment. “I do not like being called an ‘it’. Or being told I'm just pretending. It's very frustrating. I am who I am and it's quite rude of him to ignore that, I think.” She lightly drags her fingers across the couch, only slightly guilty when they leave deep gashes that stuffing spills out from. She drags her fingers back, and the couch repairs itself.

Lauren laughs, a bit deliriously. They don't ask who ‘he’ is.

(Helen is thankful. She doesn't like explaining herself, not always.)

“Well, uh, just... y'know, knowing what makes you uncomfortable helps you avoid it in the future. Right?” It’s a miracle they haven’t broken their pencil yet with how tightly they're gripping it.

“Thank you, Lauren. I feel better, I think.” Helen smiles. 

Lauren nods shakily, checking their watch. “That’s... good. Are you... will you let me go?”

“Yes. You need to see your wife, don't you?” Another nod. “Could I visit again?”

“D-do I have a choice?”

“Hm. I suppose not. Choice is rather subjective, don’t you think?”

Lauren shrugs helplessly. “I'm free after 5 on Wednesdays?”

“Thank you,” Helen says, smiling warmly. The door to their office opens, and they quickly run out.

If the door just so happens to open into their apartment, where their wife happens to be waiting and smiling with relief and concern, that's between Helen and her corridors. 

(Being a monster does not mean she must be monstrous.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda a short one so ill pop the next one out soon!  
> michael absolutely would have eaten them after, but helen is a classy lady  
> thanks everyone for reading it means a lot!!
> 
> (also its not entirely relevant but lauren is a nonbinary lesbian and they love their wife very much)


	4. looking at the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your face doesn’t make my leg hurt, anyway, so that’s something, I guess.”
> 
> “If I had legs, I would say the same,” Helen nods solemnly. Melanie snorts, too tired to really laugh, and she pulls Helen in for a tight hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basira time! i kinda wish id written more with her i love her so much  
> @staticbees wrote a lot of the helen and melanie after melanie wakes up cuz i was stuck! thanks static, love ya

“I mean, it's so stupid! I'm not going to sit through 3 hours of boring fight scenes just to further a story about characters I don't know anything about!” Melanie leans back on her cot, legs up against the wall, her shoulder length black hair dangling over the edge.

Jon has been back for about a week, and it has done nothing to improve Melanie’s mood. Ranting about movies to Helen seemed to calm her, though, so Helen was happy to oblige. 

Helen hums. “3 hours is...?”

“Long,” Melanie says blandly.

“Ah, yes,” Helen shrugs. “Time is hard.” A few moments of silence, Melanie looking at the ceiling and Helen looking at her hands, folding them in her lap as she perches on the edge of the bed. “Richardson liked romantic comedies, I think.”

(That's another suggestion from Lauren: call themself Helen and their old self Richardson: separate themself from their past and focus on establishing their own identity in the future. It was still... quite confusing, but she thought she was getting better.)

“And you? What movies do you like?”

Helen hums. “I’m not sure. I have never seen any. Maybe we can find out together.”

Melanie smiles. “I’d like that.”

“Melanie? Who is that?” says a voice from the doorway. It isn’t really a question, more of a statement.

(Helen giggles at that. Statements. In the Archives. How novel.)

She turns to see a short woman, fat, with a tight hijab around a cool stony face. Her owl-like eyes run over Helen like she’s a puzzle needed to be solved, or a question unanswered. It isn’t an unpleasant look, all things considered.

Melanie jumps at the sound of her voice, adrenaline coursing through her. Any relaxation that had slowly settled in was gone now. She opens her mouth but doesn’t really seem to know what to say.

“My name is Helen. I am here to assist the Archives. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Basira looks at her, and then back at Melanie. “You know ‘em?”

“Yeah. They - she?” Melanie looks at Helen for confirmation, and she nods, feeling a warm feeling in what used to be her chest at the simple act of affirmation, “she helped me with the Flesh attack. I managed to back him into one of her doors.”

“It was very impressive.” Melanie smiles slightly, and Helen likes it. Helen wants to keep her smiling as long as she can. But the Detective is still looking at them, so she continues, “I can keep him trapped indefinitely. He has no power in my realm, and will be unable to attack any of you.”

Basira looks her over, not coldly, but without any particular warmth. “You part of the Spiral, then?” A nod. She considers it. “Alright. We need as many allies as we can get. She can stay.” She pauses in the doorway. “Don’t tell Jon.”

“Why not?” Melanie asks, mostly out of confusion rather than any actual desire to talk to him.

“Do you want to explain that we have another monster in our basement?”

Well, that’s a bit rude, Helen thinks, but she can’t exactly argue.

Melanie grimaces, glaring at a corner of the room. Basira gives her an odd look and leaves. Helen listens to her footsteps receding and hums.

“She’s a lot like the Archivist, isn’t she?”

“Ugh, don’t even talk about him,” Melanie scowls.

She goes on another rant, this time about Jon and his ‘stupid condescending voice,’ and Helen smiles.

(Melanie seems happier around her. The feeling is mutual.)

 

-

 

Melanie has been screaming since she ran through her door. Helen does not touch her, because she does not want to be touched, but they listen. Her thigh is soaked with blood, and Helen does the best they can to repair the physical damage.

Once she calms down, Helen plays with her hair until she can fall asleep.

(For one of the first times, Helen feels angry.)

-

 

Melanie wakes up screaming. Her body convulses, hands shaking, skin drained of color, and she snaps towards Helen, eyes wide and unseeing, before her gaze settles on Helen’s face, and her expression morphs into one of confusion, and then anger. “That  _ bastard _ ,” she spits, eyes hard. “He fucking cut it out of me while I was  _ drugged _ !”

“Cut out what?” Helen inquires, although they already know.

“The fucking _ bullet _ !”

“Oh. Would you rather they had left it in?”

Melanie glares. “I don’t know. That's not the  _ point _ . The point is that they didn't give me a  _ choice." _

“A choice,” she echoes. 

“I expected this from him, but Basira... You know what I saw, right before I woke up? I saw Jonathan Sim, with a scalpel, in my  _ goddamn _ leg.” She chokes back a sob, or maybe a scream, burying her face in her hands.

Helen winces, which is unusual in of itself. They don't tend to make small, unconscious gestures like most humans would, which often leads to others finding them… unsettling. Michael surely hadn’t, and he reveled in the uncanniness. However, as they've been spending more time around the archival staff, Melanie in particular, they've started to pick up a few... odd habits. 

(They can't seem to say that they mind.)

“I can’t even be angry about it,” Melanie continues, interrupting Helen's musings. “Not proper angry! I’m fucking pissed, but it - it doesn’t feel  _ good _ anymore! There’s no  _ familiarity _ or, or  _ power _ , it just  _ hurts _ .” 

Helen frowns. “I’m sorry.” She can't imagine losing the Spiral like Melanie lost the Slaughter - ripped away from her twisting labyrinths and corridors, the familiar, comforting sharp angles and twining patterns of the spaces between the doors gone forever from all but her memory. Alone, cramped, confined, stuck forever in a world that couldn’t understand her. She doesn’t know how to express that, though, so she just says “I care about you, Melanie. To the extent of which I am capable of caring. I am sorry.”

Melanie blinks. Her eyes flick over Helen’s face, and quickly dart away. “It’s... well, it’s not fine, but thank you. I... care about you too.” Helen smiles. “Your face doesn’t make my leg hurt, anyway, so that’s something, I guess.”

“If I had legs, I would say the same,” Helen nods solemnly. Melanie snorts, too tired to really laugh, and she pulls Helen in for a tight hug.

They are suddenly very conscious of how weird their body must feel, joints bending in the wrong direction, skin like leather and ribs like stairs, but Melanie doesn’t flinch. 

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” Helen gently hugs her back, making sure she doesn’t hurt her, even on accident.

Melanie pulls away. “I... should get back to work. Can I... can I come back, tonight? I don’t feel safe sleeping there. Not anymore.”

“Always,” Helen says.

“Right. See you tonight, then.”

The faint blush on Melanie’s face is all she thinks about until she sees her again.

 

-

 

Melanie stays with her most nights. She has a bedroom in her corridors, now, and vases of roses she's sure weren’t there before. 

(They remind her of Melanie, and she makes sure to say so.)


	5. but ill be seeing you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melanie cracks her neck. “Right. 20 bucks says that he dies.”
> 
> Helen laughs.

There’s movement outside one of her doors: she feels it like one would feel an ant crawling along her foot. It rather tickles.

Helen cocks her head, listening closer.

“She’s been helping us.” She smiles. Melanie. Her friend. They’re friends now. She’s never really had a friend before. It’s nice.

“ _It_ has never helped anyone. Not without a cost.” The Archivist too. Helen feels... something. She doesn’t know what. She pushes open her door.

“If I am an ‘it,’ Archivist, what does that make you?” It’s a low blow, but Melanie smiles seeing her, so she finds she doesn’t really care.

“Hey, Helen.” Helen gives her a wave, still looking at Jon.

“I have been told you can help.” The Archivist glares at her.

“I have been trying to. But the last time you were very rude to me.”

“You’re still wearing her face,” he says, and oh, she doesn’t like that at _all_.

“Not this again. I’m not ‘wearing’ anything, Archivist! I am at least as much ‘Helen Richardson’ as you are the ‘Jonathan Sims’ that first joined this Institute. Things change. People change. It happens.” 

(Talking to Lauren has been very helpful.)

“We’re not people, though, are we? Not anymore.” He seems... embarrassed? Self-conscious, maybe. Helen realizes quietly it was never about her, really. It was about _him_. She merely reflects all the things he loathes about himself.

(He really is a very silly man.)

“Names. Categories. It’s all so important to you, isn’t it? You do know none of it’s actually real. It's all just meaningless boxes.” She hopes Jon understands.

A few moments of awkward silence, and it’s Melanie who changes the subject. “Is... he still in there?”

“Oh, yes. He’s not exactly something I can... digest.” Jon’s eyebrows twist slightly. She takes pride in that. “He’s a bit of an irritant, to be honest. If you’re looking to let him out, I could be persuaded.”

“When did you say they attacked?”

“A couple of months ago.”

“And he’s been in there... ever since?”

“I helped clean up,” Helen says happily.

“After I, uh... took care of things.”

“All this time. Why didn't anyone tell me?”

“Basira said not to.” Melanie shrugs, and Helen mimics the gesture.

“I see. Why didn’t you kill him?”

“I stabbed him in _three different hearts_. Didn’t work. If you want to go hunting for a fourth, knock yourself out.”

Helen smirks.

That finally gets him to be quiet. “I...” he fumbles for a second, “...I’m alright, I think.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Right. I go in, I offer freedom if he... helps. Then I hope he doesn’t kill me. If he tries anything...”

“I would suggest running. Try to find a door.”

“Naturally,” Jon says, glancing at the door like he was afraid it was going to bite him. “Oh, er... Er, pass the recorder?”

“Seriously?” Melanie’s face briefly flashes with anger, but she steels herself and hands it over. “Fine.”

“Right.”

He opens the door and walks in.

Melanie cracks her neck. “Right. 20 pounds says that he dies.”

Helen laughs.

 

-

 

“Still alive?” Helen hums. They're in her hallways, now, where the Archivist had fainted. He seems almost delicate, crumpled up on the garish carpet.

“Seems to be, yes.” Melanie shrugs as if to say 'guess I owe you.'

“And he’s certainly holding a bone. For some reason.”

“Said it was going to be an anchor.” Melanie rolls her eyes.

“Hmm. Bodies are strange. Rather glad they’re not my concern anymore.”

“Must be nice,” Melanie says with a hint of wistfulness.

“It really is.”

“...Did you let that... thing go?

“He found a door.”

Melanie looks at her sharply, body tensed. “Where did he come out?”

“The door may have been in a wall some distance above a river.” Helen had watched Jared tumble down and down, hands and hands and hands flailing. He hit the water with a very sickening crunch, and it had been very amusing.

Melanie laughs. It’s like music, she thinks: not the droning music of the Slaughter, not the lilting hymns of the Stranger. Something like wind chimes. “Nice.”

The Archivist slowly blinks himself awake, clutching the bone like a teddy bear. “It... um?” He blinks, looking at the two of them blindly like a baby bird that fell from the nest.

“All done,” she says soothingly. She likes being soothing.

“Uh...” He winces. “Thank you. For your... uh. For your help.”

“You are very welcome. I have decided that I support what you are doing, and I am happy to assist. I think we’ll all be much happier this way.” Being clear about her emotions was another recommendation from Lauren, as well as Melanie, and she finds it is very useful.

“Basira’s not going to be happy that you let him out,” Melanie warns.

“Basira isn’t here, and if this works, I’ll have Daisy waiting for her when she gets back, so I don’t think she’ll be thinking too much about Jared.”

Helen wonders if Melanie is her Daisy.

“You’re going _now_?” Melanie looks at him, still crumpled up on the floor, so weak, with a mix of fear and disbelief.

The Archivist chuckles, wincing in pain when his lungs touch inflamed flesh where his ribs used to be.

“No. No, now I am going for a lie-down. That was... that was not what I expected.”

“Come on, you can use Basira’s cot.” Melanie gives him a hand up, and he unsteadily climbs to his feet.

Helen opens a door for the two of them without having to be asked. Melanie lets Jon lean on her as he staggers weakly, clutching onto his bone like it's the only thing keeping him from passing out again. Maybe it is. Bodies are very weird.

“Good luck, Archivist.” She looks at Melanie's receding figure, smiling fondly in spite of herself.

“Be seeing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for reading!! i really love the distortion so... here we are.  
> thanks to my friends for dealing with this being the only thing i talked about for a week (and for proof reading it/helping me through scenes/giving Lesbian Advisement if youre @staticbees!!)
> 
> im octopodian(s) on pretty much everything so come talk to me about magnus if you wanna!
> 
> (chapter titles/title from ill be seeing you by billie holiday)


End file.
